by 


OIiverHerford 


* 
'<• 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

The  Theodore  H.  Koundakjian 

Collection 
of  American  Humor 


au  Vfrsyto  vi>cu<u.  C^-/-A 

cu^ 
/7?a^o, 


><?*> 


PEN  AND  INKLINGS 


BY 

OLIVER   HERFORD 


NEW    YORK 

GEO.    M.    ALLEN    COMPANY 
BROADWAY,    CORNER    2 1ST   STREET 


COPYRIGHT  1893  BY 
OLIVER  HERFORD 


PH6I6"1/ 


Acknowledgment  is  made  to  the 
editors  of  "Life,"  and  to  Messrs.  Harper  Bros. 


ONCE  Cupid,  he 
Went  on  a  spree 
And  made  a  peck  of  trouble, 
"Ah  ha!"  cried  he 
"Two  hearts  I  see!" 
Alack  the  rogue  saw  double. 

There  was  but  one  ; 
What  has  he  done  ? 
How  could  he  be  so  stupid  ? 
Into  one  heart 
Two  arrows 


O  Cupid,  Cupid,  Cupid  ! 


In  truth  'tis  sweet 
When  ' '  two  hearts  beat 

As  one  " — but  what  to  do 
When  in  one  heart 
Two  arrows  smart 

And  one  heart  beats  as  two  ? 


Y 


A  POST-MORT-D' ARTHURIAN  LEGEND. 

E  log  burns  low,  ye  feaste  is  donne, 

Twelve  knyghtes  of  ye  Table  Rounde 
Slyde  down  fromme  ye  benches,  one  by  one, 
And  snore  upon  ye  ground. 

Ye  log  to  a  dimme  blue  flame  has  died, 
When  ye  doore  of  ye  banquet  halle 

Is  opened  wide,  and  in  there  glyde 
Twelve  spectral  Hagges  ande  Talle. 


Ye  log  burns  dimme,  and  eke  more  dimme, 

Loud  groans  each  knyghtlie  gueste, 
As  ye  ghoste  of  his  grandmother,  gaunt  and  grimme, 

Sitts  on  each  knyghte  hys  cheste. 

Ye  log  in  pieces  twaine  doth  falle, 

Ye  daye  beginnes  to  breake, 
Twelve  ghostlie  grandmothers  glyde  from  ye  halle, 

And  ye  twelve  goode  knyghtes  awake. 

Ande  ever  whenne  Mynce  Pye  was  placed 

On  ye  table  frome  thatte  daye, 
Ye  Twelve  knyghtes  crossed  themselves  in  haste 

Ande  looked  ye  other  waye. 


B  Jfable. 

IT  was  a  hungry  pussy  cat 
Upon  Thanksgiving  morn, 
And  she  watched  a  thankful  little  mouse 
That  ate  an  ear  of  corn. 

"  If  I  eat  that  thankful  little  mouse, 

How  thankful  he  should  be, 
When  he  has  made  a  meal  himself, 

To  make  a  meal  for  me ! 

"  Then,  with  his  thanks  for  having  fed 
And  his  thanks  for  feeding  me — 

With  all  his  thankfulness  inside — 
How  thankful  /  shall  be  !  " 

Thus  "mewsed"  the  hungry  pussy  cat 

Upon  Thanksgiving  Day. 
But  the  little  mouse  had  overheard, 

And  declined  (with  thanks)  to  stay. 


TUpon  a  Cast. 

A  YOUTH  and  a  maid  went  a-fishing  one  day — 
One  sunshiny  morning  in  May ; 
She  with  a  sketch  book,  he  with  a  fly, 
And  little  they  guessed  that  Cupid  so  sly — 
That  Cupid  himself  was  fishing  hard  by— 
Was  fishing  just  over  the  way. 

Cupid's  bow  was  unstrung  on  that  morning  in  May, 
And  made  with  the  bowstring  a  fish-pole  that  day ; 
And  over  the  way,  had  he  happened  to  look, 
Sate  he  of  the  fishing-rod,  she  of  the  book, 
Little  thinking  that  Cupid  was  fishing  the  brook, 
The  very  same  brooklet  as  they. 

And  so  it  fell  out  as  they  angled  away, 

A  big  shiny  carp  came  a-swimming  that  way ; 

And  as  in  a  moment  they  each  made  a  cast, 

Cupid's  line  caught  the  line  of  the  youth  as  it  passed, 

And  tangled  him  up  with  the  maiden  so  fast — 

In  a  tangle  so  witchingly  woven  they  say, 

It  has  not  been  untied  since  that  morning  in  May. 


6  6   -pjHYLLIS,  if  I  cculd  I'd  paint  you 

As  I  see  you  sitting  there, 
You  distracting  little  saint,  you, 
With  your  aureole  of  hair. 

If  I  only  -were  an  artist, 
And  such  glances  could  be  caught, 

You  should  have  the  very  smartest 
Picture  frame  that  can  be  bought ! 

"Phyllis,  since  I  can't  depict  your 
Charms,  or  give  you  aught  but  fame, 

Will  you  be  yourself  the  picture? 
Will  you  let  me  be  the  frame? 

Whose  protecting  clasp  may  bind  you 
Always " 

"Nay,"  cried  Phyllis;  "hold, 
Or  you'll  force  me  to  remind  you 
Pictures  must  be  framed  with  gold!" 


H  3lox>e 


HE  was  a  Wizard's  son, 
She  an  Enchanter's  daughter; 
He  dabbled  in  Spells  for  fun. 
Her  father  some  magic  had  taught  her. 


They  loved — but  alas !  to  agree 

Their  parents  they  couldn't  persuade. 
An  Enchanter  and  Wizard,  you  see, 

Were  naturally  rivals  in  trade — 
And  the  market  for  magic  was  poor — 

There  was  scarce  enough  business  for  two ; 
So  what  started — rivalry  pure 

Into  hatred  and  jealousy  grew. 


Now  the  lovers  were  dreadfully  good ; 

But  when  there  was  really  no  hope, 
After  waiting  as  long  as  they  could, 

What  else  could  they  do  but  elope  ? 
They  eloped  in  a  hired  coupe ; 

And  the  youth,  with  what  magic  he  knew — 
Made  it  go  fully  five  miles  a  day. 

(Such  wonders  can  sorcery  do !) 


Then  the  maiden  her  witcheries  plied, 

And  enchanted  the  cabman  so  much, 
When  they  got  to  the  end  of  their  ride 

Not  a  cent  of  his  fare  would  he  touch ! 
Now  they're  married  and  live  to  this  day 

In  a  nice  little  tower,  alone, 
For  the  building  of  w^hich,  by  the  way, 

Their  parents  provided  the  stone. 


Then  the  parents  relented  ?  Oh,  no ! 

They  pursued  with  the  fury  of  brutes, 
But  arrived  just  to  late  for  the  show, 

Through  a  leak  in  their  seven  league  boots ; 
And  finding  their  children  were  wed, 

Into  such  a  wild  rage  they  were  thrown, 
They  rushed  on  each  other  instead 

And  each  turned  the  other  to  stone. 
Then  the  lovers,  since  lumber  was  high, 

And  bricks  were  as  then  quite  unknown, 
As  soon  as  their  tears  were  quite  dry — 

They  quarried  their  parents  for  stone. 


And  now  in  a  nice'  little  tower, 

In  Blissfulness  tinged  with  Remorse, 

They  live  like  as  not  to  this  hour— 
(Unless  they  have  got  a  divorce). 


Crime,  Wickedness,   Villainy,   Vice, 
And  5m  only  misery  bring ; 

If  you  want  to  be  Happy  and  Nice, 
Be  good  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 


Seefee. 

o 


Love  Hys    /^~\  NE  day  beneathe  a  willowe  tree, 
Game.      \    J     Love  met  a  mayde  moste  faire  to  see  ; 

"Come  play  at  hyde  and  seeke,"  cried  he. 
"With  alle  my  hearte!" — quoth  she. 


"I'm  it !"  Love  cries,  and  rounde  hys  eyes 
A  scarfe  the  maiden  bindeth, 

And  inne  and  oute  and  rounde  aboute 
Ye  willowe  trees  he  windeth — 
Yette  ne'er  the  maiden  findeth. 

Stille  inne  and  oute  and  rounde  aboute, 
And  stille  no  maiden  meetinge ; 

Till  piqued,  ye  rogue  unbinds  hys  eyes, 

And,  perched  upon  a  branch,  espies 
Ye  mayde  retreatinge ; 

"Fie!  Fie!"  cries  Love— "you're  cheetinge!" 

Love,  Hys    "Now,  you,"  quothe  he,  "must  seeke  for  me!' 
Revenge.        She  binds  her  eyes,  assentinge, 

And  inne  and  oute  and  rounde  aboute, 
Seeks  she  for  Love  relentinge — 

But  Love,  they  say — alas,  ye  day! 
Has  spread  his  wings  and  flown  away, 

And  left  ye  mayde  lamentinge, 

And  left  ye  mayde  repentinge. 


Ube  fficfele  Calendar. 


SPRING. 

IN  a.  lane  a  careless  mortal 
Meets  a  maiden  merry  — 
As  by  chance  they  come  together, 
Someone  ventures — "Charming  weather! 
Someone  murmurs — "Very !  " 


SUMMER. 

AT  her  feet  a  lazy  mortal 
Whiffs  his  cares  away, 
Reads  the  while  in  eyes  provoking 
Volumes  on  the  vice  of  smoking. 
Who  could  disobey  ? 


AUTUMN. 

IN  the  train  a  lovesick  mortal 
Doesn't  care  to  smoke, 
Feels — he  says — a  strange  abhorrence. 
Tries  to  think  of  rhymes  to  Florence— 
Sonnets  are  no  joke. 


WINTER. 

ON  the  street  a  bustling  mortal 
Dons  his  city  manners, 
To  a  paper  takes  his  sonnet, 
And  with  what  he  raises  on  it, 
Gets  some  more  Havanas. 


THE  politest  musician  that  ever  was  seen 
Was  Montague  Meyerbeer  Mendelssohn  Green. 
So  extremely  polite  he  would  take  of  his  hat 
Whenever  he  happened  to  meet  with  a  cat. 


"It's  not  that  I'm  partial  to  cats,"  he'd  explain; 
"  Their  music  to  me  is  unspeakable  pain. 
There's  nothing  that  causes  my  flesh  so  to  crawl 
As  when  they  perform  a  G-flat  caterwaul. 


Yet  I  cannot  help  feeling — in  spite  of  their  din- 
When  I  hear  at  a  concert  the  first  violin 
Interpret  some  exquisite  thing  of  my  own, 
If  it  were  not  for  cat  gut  I'd  never  be  known. 

And  so,  when  I  bow  as  you  see  to  a  cat, 

It  isn't  to  her  that  I  take  off  my  hat ; 

But  to  fugues  and  sonatas  that  possibly  hide 

Uncomposed  in  her — well — in  her  tuneful  inside ! 


In  tbe  Cafe. 

I  P.   M. 

HE  sits  before  me  as  I  write, 
And  talks  of  this  and  that, 
And  all  my  thoughts  are  put  to  flight 

By  his  infernal  chat. 
I  came  to  write  a  tender  rhyme 

To  Phyllis  or  to  Mabel, 
And  chose  in  this  retired  cafe 

The  most  secluded  table. 
He  came  before  I'd  time  to  fly, 

And  ere  I  could  refuse, 
Had  filled  the  very  chair  that  I 

Was  keeping  for  the  muse ! 
Then  came  the  deluge — down  it  came 

In  one  unceasing  pour — 
Of  science,  crops,  photography, 

Religion,  soups  and  war. 

i .  30 — Forsooth  the  flood  of  words  that  flows 

From  this  secluded  table 
Will  soon  be  great  enough  to  swamp 

A  dozen  towers  of  Babel. 
2.30— And  still  he  stays,  and  still  the  flood 

Is  rising  as  before ; 


3.30 —    Without  a  sign  of  shore. 
5      _N.  B.— I  feel  like  Ararat, 

While  he  resembles  Noahr. 


— Great  Scott!     He's  going! 

"  No,  must  you  go  ? 
Don't  tear  yourself  away! 
What  have  I  written?     Oh,  some  trash — 

A  sort  of  Fairy-lay, 
Of  how  a  dreadful  ogre 

Caught  a  luckless  youth  one  day, 
And  drowned  him  in  a  flood  of — well, 
If  you  must  go — good  day !  " 


Phyllis — or  Mabel !  pray  forgive — 

/  had  to  pay  him  out ; 
I'll  write  that  tender  rhyme  to  you 

Some  other  day,  no  doubt. 


H  IRomance  in 


E'D  discussed  every  modern  composer, 

In  the  course  of  a  friendly  chat, 
When  I  casually  ask  if  she  knows  a 
"Romance"  by  Van  Thump  in  B-rJat. 


W 


"No,  really,"  she  "couldn't  quite  say — er — ' 

If  ever  she'd  heard  it  or  not, 
So  I  jumped  up  and  offered  to  play  her 

A  few  bars  from  the  piece  on  the  spot. 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  postpone  it," 
She  answered,  in  accents  of  fear ; 

"The  piano— I  blush  when  I  own  it — 
Has  been  out  of  tune  for  a  year." 

I  replied  that  it  didn't  much  matter, 

Just  to  give  an  idea  of  the  air, 
Then  I  opened  the  lid  with  a  clatter, 

And  she  fainted  away  in  a  chair. 

And  when  she  had  wholly  recovered  — 
Which  she  did  in  a  moment  or  more  — 

That  I  never  tell  what  I'd  discovered 
She  begged  me  to  swear,  and  I  swore. 

And  now  when  I  happen  to  call  there 
You  don't  catch  me  offering  to  play 

A  "Romance"  on  her  "Chickering"  bedstead, 
For  the  thing  "isn't  built  that  way." 


NCE  to  a  man  a  goblin  came 
And  said  to  him,  ' '  If  you  will  name 
Three  wishes,  whatsoe'er  they  be, 
They  shall  be  granted  instantly. 
Think  of  three  things  you  deem  the  best, 
Express  your  wish  —  lwe  do  the  rest.'  " 
"O  Goblin!"  cried  the  man,  "indeed 
You're  just  the  kind  of  a  friend  I  need. 
Hunger  and  Want  I've  known  thus  far, 
I  fain  would  learn  what  Riches  are." 
"Then,"  cried  the  Goblin,  "learn  it  well, 
T(iches  are  title  deeds  to  Hell! 
Now  wish  again." 


"  Alackaday!" 

Exclaimed  the  man.     ' '  I've  thrown  away, 
And  all  for  naught,  a  chance  immense ; 
I  only  wish  I  had  some  sense !" 
The  Goblin  waived  his  hand — the  Dunce 
To  his  surprise  was  wise  for  once. 
And  being  wise,  he  laughed,  and  said: 
"I  am  a  fool — would  I  were  dead ! " 
******* 
"Granted!"  the  Goblin  yell'd,  "it's  plain 
You'll  never  be  so  wise  again." 


Ube  Witch's  Daughter. 

A    FAIRY    TALE. 

ONCE  there  lived  a  wicked  witch, 
In  a  dark  and  dreadful  wood ; 
She  had  hair  as  black  as  pitch, 
And  her^teeth  were  far  from  good. 
.  In  the  corners  of  her  eyes 

Mr.  Crow  had  set  his  feet ; 
And,  indeed,  tho'  she  was  wise, 
You  could  scarcely  call  her  sweet. 

With  this  dire  and  dreadful  dame 

Lived  the  loveliest  of  girls— 
Caramella  was  her  name. 

She,  of  course,  had  teeth  like  pearls, 
Golden  hair  and  eyes  of  blue, 

Not  to  mention  cheeks  of  pink — 
In  short,  as  like  the  witch  as  dew 

Is  to  stylographic  ink. 

All  around  the  country  side, 
Stormy  nights,  the  wicked  witch 

On  her  flying  broom  would  ride, 
Feared  alike  by  poor  and  rich. 


Where'er  she  cast  her  evil  eye 

Children  would  be  seized  with  fits ; 

Corn  would  rot  and  cows  run  dry 
(Even  watchmen  lost  their  wits). 

But  the  lovely  Damozel, 

Caramella,  strange  to  say, 
Wrought  an  even  greater  spell, 

Tho'  in  quite  another  wray. 
Princes  worshipped  at  her  shrine 

Till,  alas !    her  ma  they  saw ; 
Even  princes  draw  the  line 

At  a  witch  for  mother-in-law. 

First  among  her  lovers  fine 

Was  the  good  Prince  Shandigaff ; 
To  the  rest  as  pearls  to  swine, 

Or  September  wheat  to  chaff. 
He  would  wed  her  any  day 

Were  her  ma  more  comme  ilfaut; 
"Hang  it — she's  a  witch !"  he'd  say, 

"That  is  quite  too  awfully  low." 

So  he  pined  away  instead 

In  some  horrid  torrid  clime ; 
But  he  hastened  back  to  wed 

Caramella — just  in  time. 
The  witch,  he'd  learned,  was  one  fine  day 

Of  her  tricks  forever  cured 
In  the  good  old-fashioned  way 

(And  was  heavily  insured). 


THE  Infant  Earth  one  April  day 
(the  first  of  April — so  they  say) 
When  toddling  on  her  usual  round 
Spied  in  her  path  upon  the  ground 
A  dainty  little  garland  ring 
Of  violets — and  that  was  Spring. 
She  caught  the  pretty  wreath  of  Spring 
And  all  the  birds  began  to  sing, 
But  when  she  thought  to  hold  it  tight 
'Twas  rudely  jerked  from  out  her  sight; 
And  while  she  looked  for  it  in  vain 
The  birds  all  flew  away  again. 


Alas !     The  flowering  wreath  of  Spring 
Was  fastened  to  a  silken  string, 
And  Time,  the  urchin,  laughed  for  glee 
(He  held  the  other  end,  you  see). 


And  that  was  long  ago,  they  say, 

When  Time  was  young  and  Earth  was  gay. 

Now  Earth  is  old  and  Time  is  lame 

Yet  still  they  play  the  same  old  game : 

Old  Earth  still  reaches  out  for  Spring 

And  Time— well— Time  still  holds  the  string. 


1bet  Sbe  anfc  1Tt ; 

OR,  LOVE'S  LABOR  LOST. 

HE  (before  writing  It). 

NOW  Maud  is  offended  again ! 
And  again  I've  got  into  a  tight  place. 
If  only  my  tongue  I  could  train 
Just  to  say  the  right  thing  in  the  right  place ! 
And  now  I  must  write  and  explain 

How  her  feelings  at  rest  she  may  quite  place, 
If  on  my  rash  words  she  will  deign 

But  to  place  the  construction  she  might  place. 

IT. 
When  you  asked  if  I  should  miss  you,  dear, 

And  I  answered,  "  Out  of  sight 
Is  out  of  mind,"  for  this — you  dear!— 

You  call  me  ' '  impolite  " — 
Now  had  you  read  me  right,  my  dear, 

You  surely  had  divined 
That  when  you  go  out  of  my  sight,  my  dear. 

Then  /  go  out  of  my  mind ! 

SHE  (after  reading  It}. 
Poor  fellow !  he  had  a  hard  time 

That  time  I — and  without  hesitation 
I  grant  him  the  palm  for  sublime 

And  ingenious  extenuation— 
I  knew  'twas  a  jest  all  the  time 

That  parting  remark  at  the  station ! 
But  his  efforts  when  put  down  to  climb 

Back  into  my  high  estimation 
Are  really  so  funny  that  I'm 

Quite  too  weak  to  resist  the  temptation. 


Ube  ^Difference. 

N  the  spring  the  Leaves  come  out 
And  the  little  Poetlets  sprout ; 
Everywhere  they  may  be  seen, 
Each  as  Fresh  as  each  is  Green. 
Each  hangs  on  through  scorch  and  scoff 
Till  the  fall,  when  both  "come  off," 
With  this  difference,  be  it  said, 
That  the  leaves  at  least  are  Red. 


A  CHRISTMAS  LEGEND. 

BENEATHE  an  ancient  oake  one  daye 
A  holye  friar  kneeled  to  praye, 
Scarce  hadde  he  mumbled  Aves  three 
When  lo !  a  voice  within  the  tree ! 
Straighte  to  the  friar's  hearte  it  wente, 
A  voice  as  of  some  spirit  pente 
Within  the  hollow  of  the  tree 
That  cried  "Good  father, ..sette  me  free ! " 


Quoth  he,  "  This  hath  an  evil  sounde.' 
Ande  bente  him  lower  to  the  grounde. 
But  ever  tho'  he  prayed,  the  more 
The  voice  hys  pytie  didde  implore, 
Untyl  he  raised  hys  eyes  ande  there 
Behelde  a  may  den  ghostlie  faire. 
Thus  to  the  holy  manne  she  spoke : 

"  Within  the  hollow  of  this  oak, 

"  Enchanted  for  a  hundred  yeares, 

"  Have  I  been  Sounde— yet  vain  my  teares 

"  Notte  anything  can  breake  the  batnie 

"  Till  I  be  kiss'd  by  holye  manne." 


"Woe  's  me!"  thenne  sayd  the  friar;  "if  thou 

"  Be  sente  to  tempt  me  breake  my  vowe, 

1 '  Butte  whether  mayde  or  fiende  thou  be 

"  I'll  stake  my  soul  to  sette  thee  free." 

The  holye  marine  then  crossed  hym  thrice, 

And  kissed  the  mayde — when  in  a  trice 

She  vanished — 

"  Heaven  forgive  me  now !  " 
Exclaimed  the  friar — "  my  broken  vowe." 

4 '  If  I  have  sinned — I  sinned  to  save 
"  Another  fromme  a  living  grave ; " 
Thenne  downe  upon  the  earth  he  felle, 
And  prayed  some  sign  that  he  might  telle 
If  he  were  doomed  evermore ; 
When  lo !  the  oake  alle  bare  before 
Put  forth  a  branch  of  palest  greene, 
And  fruited  everywhere  betweene, 
With  waxen  berries,  pearlie  white, 
A  miracle  before  hys  sight. 


The  holye  friar  wente  hys  waye 
And  told  hys  tale— 

And  from  thatte  daye 
It  hath  been  writ  that  anye  manne 
May  blamelesse  kiss  what  mayde  he  canne 
Nor  anyone  shall  say  hym  "  no  " 
Beneath  the  holye  mistletoe. 


H  Golfc 


ONCE  when  it  was  cold  and  bluff, 
Cupid  hid  in  Mabel's  muff. 
"  Mabel's  little  hands,"  quoth  he, 
"  Warm  as  any  nest  will  be, 
Here  I'll  stay  and  take  mine  ease." 
On  a  sudden  came  a  squeeze — 
Startled,  Love  exclaimed,  "What's  this? 
"  Surely  something  is  amiss! " 
Looked  at  Mabel's  hands  to  see 
What  the  matter  was — "  Dear  me ! 
' '  Do  mine  eyes  deceive  ?  or  can 
"  One  of  Mable's  gloves  be  tan 
"  And  the  other  gray? — that's  odd, 
"  Both  right  hands,  as  I'm  a  god! 
"  Mabel !  Mabel !  have  a  care ! 
"  Two  right  hands  don't  make  a  pair. 
"  I'll  be  off,"  quoth  Love,  "it's  clear 
"  I  am  little  needed  here. 
' '  Bitter  though  the  March  wind  be, 
"  This  is  much  too  warm  for  me !  " 


Ube  Gussefc  H)amo3el. 

A  LOVER  sate  alone 
All  by  the  Golden  Gate 
And  made  exceedynge  moan 
Whiles  he  hys  Love  didde  wait. 

To  him  One  coming  prayed 

Why  he  didde  weepe.     Said  he, 
' '  I  weepe  me  for  a  maid 

Who  cometh  notte  to  mee." 


' '  Alas !     I  waite  likewise 
My  Love  these  many  years ; 

Meseems  'twould  save  our  eyes 
If  we  should  pool  our  tears." 


And  so  they  weeped  full  sore 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  daye, 

Till  they  could  weepe  no  more, 
For  notte  a  tear  hadde  they. 


When  as  they  came  to  see 

They  could  not  weepe  alway, 

Each  of  hys  Faire  Ladyee 
'Gan  sing  a  rondelay. 


"  My  Love  hath  golden  hair," 

Sang  one,  "  and  like  the  wine 
The  red  lips  of  my  Fair." 

The  other  sang,  "  So's  mine." 

"  My  Love  is  wondrous  wise," 
Sang  one,  "  and  wondrous  fine 

And  wondrous  dark  her  eyes." 
The  other  sang,  "  5o's  mine." 


She  plighted  ere  I  died 
Eternal  troth  to  me." 
Good  lack,"  the  other  cried, 
"E'en  so  she  plighted  me ! 


"  Beside  my  bier  she  swore 
She  would  be  true  to  me, 

For  aye  and  evermore, 
Unto  eternityee." 


1 '  My  Love  is  wondrous  proud, 
And  her  name  is  Geraldyne." 

' '  Thou  liest ! "  shrieked  aloud 
The  other.     ' '  She  is  mine ! ' ' 


The  twain  didde  then  agree, 
In  their  most  grievous  plight, 

To  fly  to  earth  and  see 

The  which  of  them  was  right. 


Alack  and  well-a-daye ! 

A-well-a-daye  alack! 
Eft  soons  they  flew  away, 

Eft  sooners  flew  they  back. 


For  when  they  had  come  there 
They  were  not  fain  to  stay, 

To  Geraldyne  the  Paire 
Her  silver  weddyng  daye. 


ZTbe  Stiver  SLming, 


HEN  poets  sing  of  lovers'  woes, 
And  blighted  lives  and  throbs  and  throes 
And  yearnings — goodness  only  knows 
It's  all  a  pose. 


I  am  a  poet  too,  you  know, 
I  too  was  young  once  long  ago, 
And  wrote  such  stuff  myself,  and  sa 
I  ought  to  know. 


I  for  my  stricken  heart  found  balm 
In  sonnets  to  Amanda's  calm 
High  brow,  or  Julia's  lily  palm 
Or  perfect  arm. 


Which,  when  she  scorned,  did  I  resign 
To  flames,  and  go  into  decline  ? 
Not  much !    When  sonnets  fetched  per  line 
Enough  to  dine. 

So,  reader,  when  you  read  in  print 
A  poet's  woe — beware  and  stint 
Your  tears— and  take  this  gentle  hint- 
It  is  his  mint. 

When  Julia's  "fair  as  flowery  mead," 
Or  when  she  "  makes  his  heartstrings  bleed," 
Know  then  she's  furnishing  his  feed 
Or  fragrant  weed — 

And  even  as  you  read — who  knows, 
Like  cannibal  that  eats  his  foes, 
He  dines  off  Julia's  "  heart 
Or  "cheek  of  Rose." 


TTbe  point  ot  tyiew* 

ON  the  top  of  the  world,  where  there's  lots  of  snow 
As  all  the  geographies  say, 
A  small  Esquimau,  just  to  make  the  time  go, 
Was  building  a  Snow  Man  one  day. 

Now  it  happened  by  chance  that  two  Polar  Bears 

Came  strolling  along  that  way ; 
"  Perhaps  it  is  none  of  our  affairs, 

But  what  are  you  making  ?"  said  they. 

"A  Snow  Man,  of  course,"  said  the  Esquimau; 

The  Bears  gave  a  comical  stare ; 
Said  they,  "  If  you  must  make  a  person  of  snow, 

Why  on  earth  don't  you  make  a  Snow  Bear  ?" 

He  sat  himself  down  for  a  moment  to  think 

Of  some  suitable  sort  of  reply, 
When  a  Penguin,  two  Foxes,  a  Seal,  and  a  Mink, 

And  a  Walrus  came  wandering  by. 

They  stopped  just  a  casual  look  to  take, 

A  casual  word  to  say, 
And  each  had  a  trifling  suggestion  to  make 

In  a  patronizing  way. 

The  Penguin  said,  "  Really,  it  isn't  half  bad, 

And  shows  lots  of  promise,  you  know ; 
Yet  I  think,  for  my  part,  though  perhaps  it's  a  fad, 

A  Snow  Penguin  were  more  apropos." 


The  Foxes,  the  Seal,  and  the  Mink  were  afraid; 

They  knew  little  of  art,  so  they  said, 
But  they  thought  he  would  show  better  taste  if  he  made 

A  Fox,  Seal,  or  Mink  in  its  stead. 

The  Walrus  said  nothing,  nor  listened,  but  when 

They'd  finished,  he  ventured  to  say, 
"  It  doesn't  look  much  like  a  Walrus,  but  then 

Perhaps  when  it's  finished  it  may." 

They  turned  then  to  go ;  but  the  Esquimau — 

Alas !  he  was  seen  no  more ; 
The  heat  of  his  anger  and  shame  and  chagrin 
Had  melted  the  snow  where  the  crust  was  thin, 

And  he'd  sunk,  so  to  speak,  through  the  floor. 


ITbe  parrot  anfc  tbe  Gucfeoo* 


A   TRAGEDY. 

SCENE:  The  vicinity  of  the  Cuckoo  Clock.     Cuckoo  discovered 

in  the  act  of  telling  three  o'clock.     Parrot  watching 

from'  a  perch  near  by. 

CUCKOO:  Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!  Cuckoo! 

PARROT  :  Hark,  there  she  goes  ! 

To  hear  her  any  parrot  would  suppose 

She  owned  the  earth,  conceited  little  thing, 

She  really  seems  to  fancy  she  can  sing. 

And,  though  you'll  scarce  believe,  that  little  bird 

Rules  the  whole  blessed  household  with  a  word. 

She  only  has  to  call  "  Cuckoo  !  "  and  lo  ! 


The  family  at  once  to  luncheon  go. 
When  she  screams  "  Cuckoo! "  twice  it  is  the  rule 
For  all  the  little  ones  to  march  to  school- 
Then  when  she  screams  six  times  that  is  a  sign 
That  Cuckoo  thinks  it's  time  for  them  to  dine. 
And  so  it  goes  through  all  the  livelong  day, 
She  tells  them  what  to  do  and  they  obey. 
And  as  for  me,  they  treat  me  like  a  doll 
And  mimic  me  and  call  me  "  Pretty  Poll," 
And  ask  me  several  million  times  a  day, 
"  Does  Polly  want  a  cracker  ?"— by  the  way 
I've  yet  to  see  that  cracker — oh,  sometimes 


I  gnash  my  beak,  or  mutter  nursery  rhymes 
Or  anything !  for  fear  I  should  let  slip 
The  wicked  words  they  taught  me  on  the  ship, 
Those  naughty  sailors,  when  long,  long  ago 


They  brought  me  from  the  land  where  spices  grow 
And  palm  trees  wave,  and  Cuckoos  do  not  rule, 
And  tell  folks  when  to  bed  and  when  to  school 
And  when  to  go  to  dinner. 


Never  mind!  my  time  will  come, 

As  that  vain  bird  will  find  unto  her  sorrow. 

Yes,  the  die  is  cast ! 

Next  time  the  Cuckoo  squawks  will  be  her  last. 

Next  time  she  tries — 


CUCKOO  (striking  four  o'clock}: 
Cue " 


Cuckoo !  Cuckoo !  Cuckoo ! 


PARROT  :    Come,  now,  have   done !   we're  heard  enough 

from  you ! 

Prepare  to  die !  your  little  reign  is  o'er, 
Over  this  house  you'll  tyrannize  no  more ! 
What !  won't  you  come  ?  then  I'll  soon  show  you  how ! 


(Smashes  the  Cuckoo  to  bits,  causing  the  machinery 
to  run  down.} 

There !  stop  that  whirring ;  heavens,  what  a  row ! 
Help !  stop  it,  some  one ! 

(It  stops.) 

Well,  upon  my  word, 

You're  tough  for  such  a  very  little  bird, 

I  thought  you'd  never  die!  and  now,  my  dear, 

The  family  will  very  soon  be  here, 

And  when  they  see  how  little's  left  of  you 

They'll  be  so  glad  they  won't  know  what  to  do — 

To  think  the  Cuckoo's  killed  and  they  are  free 

To  work  or  play  or  sleep  or  take  their  tea 

Just  when  they  please — and,  most  of  all,  how  jolly 

To  feel  they  owe  it  all  to  "Pretty  Polly ! " 

Curtain. 


"it's  never  too  late  to  laugb." 

English  'Proverb. 


!  I 


o 


NCE  on  a  time  it  so  befell, 

Or  so  it  is  averred, 
That  in  the  utmost  depths  of  hell 

A  merry  laugh  was  heard. 

Thereat  for  once  the  ghostly  crew 

Forgot  their  teeth  to  gnash, 
And  trembling  asked  each  other  who 

In  hell  cotild  be  so  rash. 

Up  rose  the  Prince  with  darkening  brow 

And  pointing  with  his  staff, 
Bade  one  stand  forth  and  tell  him  how 

In  hell  he  came  to  laugh. 

Then  from  the  silent,  ghostly  throng 

A  voice  was  heard  to  break, 
It  had  a  British  accent  strong 

And  there  was  no  mistake. 

' '  Oh  come !  I  say !  upon  my  word 

I  had  to  laugh,"  he  cried, 
"I've  caught  the  point  of  a  joke  I  heard 

Ten  years  before  I  died!" 


Blossome 
dometb  .tSetore 

13e  SLeate* 


ONCE  hoary  Winter  chanced  —  alas  ! 
Alas  !  hys  waye  mistaking, 
A  leafless  apple  tree  to  pass 
Where  Spring  lay  dreaming  :   '  '  Fie  ye  lass  ! 
Ye  lass  had  best  be  waking," 
Quoth  he,  and  shook  hys  robe  and  lo  ! 
Lo  !  forth  didde  flye  a  cloud  of  snowe. 

Now  in  ye  bough  an  elfe  there  dwelte, 

An  elfe  of  wondrous  powere, 

That  when  ye  chillye  snowe  didde  pelte, 

With  magic  charm  each  flake  didde  melte, 

Didde  melte  into  a  flowere  ; 

And  Spring  didde  wake  and  marvelle  how, 

How  blossomed  so  ye  leafless  bough. 


Urutb. 

PERMIT  me,  madam,  to  declare 
That  I  never  will  compare 
Eyes  of  yours  to  Starlight  cold, 
Or  your  locks  to  Sunlight's  gold, 
Or  your  lips,  I'd  have  you  know, 
To  the  crimson  Jacqueminot. 

Stuff  like  that's  all  very  fine 
When  you  get  so  much  a  line ; 
Since  I  don't,  I  scorn  to  tell 
Flattering  lies.     I  like  too  well 
Sun  and  Stars  and  Jacqueminot 
To  flatter  them,  I'd  have  you  know. 


4    SCARECROW  in  a  field  of  corn, 
r\      A  thing  of  tatters  all  forlorn, 

Once  felt  the  influence  of  Spring 
And  fell  in  love — a  foolish  thing, 
And  most  particularly  so 
In  his  case— for  he  loved  a  crow  ! 

"  Alack-a-day !  it's  wrong  I  know, 

It's  wrong  for  me  to  love  a  crow ; 

An  all-wise  man  created  me 

To  scare  the  crows  away,"  cried  he ; 

"And  though  the  music  of  her  '  Caw' 

Thrills  through  and  through  this  heart  of  straw 


' '  My  passion  I  must  put  away 
And  do  my  duty  come  what  may ! 
Yet  oh,  the  cruelty  of  fate ! 
I  fear  she  doth  reciprocate 
My  love,  for  oft  at  dusk  I  hear 
Her  in  my  cornfield  hovering  near. 


A    SCARECROW  in  a  field  of  corn, 
/A      A  thing  of  tatters  all  forlorn, 

Once  felt  the  influence  of  Spring 
And  fell  in  love  —  a  foolish  thing, 
And  most  particularly  so 
In  his  case  —  for  he  loved  a  crow  ! 

4  '  Alack-a-day  !  it's  wrong  I  know, 

It's  wrong  for  me  to  love  a  crow  ; 

An  all-wise  man  created  me 

To  scare  the  crows  away,"  cried  he  ; 

"And  though  the  music  of  her  'Caw' 

Thrills  through  and  through  this  heart  of  straw 


4  '  My  passion  I  must  put  away 
And  do  my  duty  come  what  may  ! 
Yet  oh,  the  cruelty  of  fate  ! 
I  fear  she  doth  reciprocate 
My  love,  for  oft  at  dusk  I  hear 
Her  in  my  cornfield  hovering  near. 


"And  once  I  dreamt — Oh,  vision  blest, 
That  she  alighted  on  my  breast. 
'Tis  very,  very  hard  I  know, 
But  all- wise  man  decreed  it  so." 
He  cried  and  flung  his  arm  in  air, 
The  very  picture  of  despair. 


Poor  Scarecrow,  if  he  could  but  know 
Even  now  his  lady-love,  the  Crow, 
Sits  in  a  branch,  just  out  of  sight, 
With  her  good  husband,  waiting  night 
To  pluck  from  out  his  sleeping  breast 
His  heart  of  straw  to  line  her  nest. 


Hbsence  of 


THEY  paused  just  at  the  crossing's  brink. 
Said  she,  "We  must  turn  back,  I  think. 
She  eyes  the  mud.     He  sees  her  shrink, 
Yet  does  not  falter, 
But  recollects  with  fatal  tact 
That  cloak  upon  his  arm  —  in  fact, 
Resolves  to  do  the  courtly  act 
Of  good  Sir  Walter. 

Why  is  it  that  she  makes  no  sound, 

Staring  aghast  as  on  the  ground 

He  lays  the  cloak  with  bow  profound  ? 

Her  utterance  chokes  her. 
She  stands  as  petrified,  until, 
Her  voice  regained,  in  accents  chill 
She  gasps,  "/'//  thank  you  if  you  will 

Pick  up  my  cloak,  sir  !  " 


Ube 


IT  was  a  tragic  little  mouse 
All  bent  on  suicide 
Because  another  little  mouse 
Refused  to  be  his  bride. 


"  Alas  !  "  he  squeaked,  "  I  shall  not  wed! 

My  heart  and  paw  she  spurns, 
I'll  hie  me  to  the  cat  instead, 

From  whence  no  mouse  returns  !  " 


The  playful  cat  met  him  half  way, 
Said  she,  "  I  feel  for  you, 

You're  dying  for  a  mouse,  you  say, 
I'm  dying  for  one,  too  !  " 


Now  when  Miss  Mouse  beheld  his  doom, 
Struck  with  remorse,  she  cried, 

' '  In  death  we'll  meet,  O  cat !  make  room 
For  one  more  mouse  inside." 

The  playful  cat  was  charmed ;  said  she 

"  I  shall  be,  in  a  sense, 
Your  pussy  catafalque ! "     Ah  me ! 

It  was  her  last  offence ! 


Reader,  take  warning  from  this  tale, 
And  shun  the  punster's  trick: 

Those  mice,  for  fear  lest  cats  might  fail, 
Had  eaten  arsenic  ! 

O.  H. 


Ube  princess  anfc  tbe  Dragon. 

IN  a  very  lonely  tower, 
So  the  legend  goes  to  tell, 
Pines  a  Princess  in  the  power 
Of  a  dreadful  Dragon's  spell. 

There  she  sits  in  silent  state, 

Always  watching — always  dumb, 
While  the  Dragon  at  the  gate 

Eats  her  suitors  as  they  come — 


•; 


King  and  Prince  of  every  nation 
Poet,  Page  and  Troubadour, 

Of  whatever  rank  or  station — 
Eats  them  up  and  waits  for  more. 

Every  Knight  that  hears  the  legend 

Thinks  he'll  see  what  he  can  do, 
Gives  his  sword  a  lovely  edge,  and — 

Like  the  rest  is  eaten  too ! 

All  of  which  is  very  pretty 
And  romantic,  too,  forsooth ; 

But,  somehow,  it  seems  a  pity 
That  they  shouldn't  know  the  truth. 

If  they  only  knew  that  really 
There  is  no  princess  to  gain — 

That  she's  an  invention  merely 
Of  the  crafty  Dragon's  brain. 


Once  it  chanced  he'd  missed  his  dinner 

For  perhaps  a  day  or  two ; 
Felt  that  he  was  getting  thinner, 

Wondered  what  he'd  better  do. 

Then  it  was  that  he  bethought  him 

How  in  this  romantic  age 
(Reading  fairy  tales  had  taught  him) 

Rescuing  ladies  was  the  rage. 

So  a  lonely  tower  he  rented, 
For  a  trifling  sum  per  year, 

And  this  thrilling  tale  invented, 
Which  was  carried  far  and  near ; 

Far  and  near  throughout  the  nations, 

And  the  Dragon  ever  since, 
Has  relied  for  daily  rations, 

On  some  jolly  Knight  or  Prince. 

And  while  his  romantic  fiction 

To  a  chivalrous  age  appeals, 
It's  a  very  safe  prediction: 

He  will  never  want  for  meals. 


NE  day  a  Poppy  just  in  play 
Said  to  a  Butterfly  "  Go  'way 
"  Go  'way  you  naughty  thing — Oh  my! 
"  But  you're  a  bold  bad  butterfly!" 


Of  course  'twas  only  said  in  fun, 
He  was  a  perfect  paragon — 
In  every  way  a  spotless  thing 
(Save  for  two  spots  upon  his  wing). 

But  tho'  his  morals  were  the  best, 
He  could  not  understand  a  jest ; 
And  somehow  what  the  Poppy  said 
Put  ideas  in  his  little  head, 
And  soon  he  really  came  to  wish 
He  were  the  least  bit  "  devilish." 


He  hung  around  the  wildest  flowers, 
And  kept  the  most  unseemly  hours, 
With  dragonflies  and  drunken  bees, 
And  learned  to  say  "  By  Jove ! "  with  ease. 
Until  his  pious  friends  aghast 
Exclaimed  "  He's  getting  awf  lly  fastlj' 


He  shunned  the  nicer  flowers ;  and  threw 
Out  hints  of  shady  things  he  knew 
About  the  laurels,  and  one  day 
He  even  went  so  far  to  say 
Something  about  the  lilies  sweet 
I  could  not  possibly  repeat ! 


He  then  affected  manners  rough 

And  strained  his  voice  to  make  it  gruff, 

And  scowled  as  who  should  say  "  Beware, 

"  I  am  a  dangerous  character, 

"You'd  best  not  fool  with  me,  for  I — 

"  I  am  a  bold,  bad  butterfly." 


At  length,  it  seems,  from  being  told 
How  bad  he  was,  he  grew  so  bold, 
This  most  obnoxious  butterfly, 
That  one  day,  swaggering  'round  the  sky 
He  swaggered  in  the  net  of  Mist 
er  Jones,  the  entomologist. 


"  It^seems  a  sin,"  said  Mr.  J., 

"  This  harmless  little  thing  to  slay," 

As,  taking  it  from  out  his  net, 

He  pinned  it  to  a  board,  and  set 

Upon  a  card  below  the  same, 

In  letters  large,  its  Latin  name, 

Which  is 


— but  I  omit  it  lest 
Its  family  might  be  distressed, 
And  stop  the  little  sum  per  year 
They  pay  me  not  to  print  it  here. 


Sonnet. 

TO    THE    "WOLF    AT    THE    DOOR." 

By  a  Hungry  Poet. 

OWolf,  I  do  not  dread  thee  as  of  yore, 
Time  was  when  I  would  tremble  in  my  shoes 
At  sight  of  thee — when  lo !  my  pity'ng  Muse 
Brought  me  wherewith  to  drive  thee  from  the  door. 
And  since  at  last,  O  Wolf,  my  waning  store 
Has  lured  thee  back,  she  will  not  now  refuse 
My  invocation.     So  I  cannot  choose 

But  cry,  "  Help!  Wolf!"  that  she  may  come  once  more. 
Mine  is  a  Muse  that  listens  with  disdain 
To  any  call  save  that  of  appetite ; 
And  till  thou  earnest  all  my  prayers  were  vain, 
For  while  my  purse  was  full,  my  brain  was  light. 
Therefore,  O  Wolf,  I  welcome  thee  again 
To  speed  the  Muse — that  I  may  dine  to-night. 


ZTbe  fugitive 


WHEN  scribbling  late  one  night 
I  happened  to  alight 
On  the  happiest  thought  I'd  thought 

For  many  a  year. 
I  hailed  it  with  delight, 
But  ere  I'd  time  to  write 
My  pencil  had  contrived 
To  disappear. 


Where  could  the  thing  have  gone  ? 
I  searched  and  searched  upon 
The  table,  and  beneath  it 

And  behind  it. 
I  pushed  my  books  about, 
Turned  my  pockets  inside  out, 
But  the  more  I  looked 

The  more  I  couldn't  find  it! 


"This  will  not  do,"  I  said, 
' '  I  must  not  lose  my  head !  " 
So  I  went  and  tore  the  cushions 

From  my  chair, 

Shook  all  my  rugs  and  mats, 

And  shoes  and  coats  and  hats. 

And  crawled  beneath  the 

Sofa  in  despair ! 


Then  I  searched  and  searched  again 
On  the  table,  but  in  vain, 
And  I  fussed  and  fumed 

And  felt  about  the  floor. 
And  I  rose  up  in  my  wroth, 
And  I  shook  the  tablecloth, 
And  turned  my  pockets 

Inside  out  once  more ! 


Then  I  said,  "  I  must  keep  cool  ! 
So  I  took  my  two-foot  rule 
And  I  poked  among  the 
Ashes  in  the  grate. 
And  I  paced  my  room  in  rage, 
Like  a  wild  beast  in  a  cage, 
In  a  furious,  frightful,  frantic 
Frenzied  state  ! 


At  last,  upon  my  soul, 
I  lost  my  self-control 
And  indulged  in  language 

Quite  unfit  to  hear  ; 
Till  out  of  breath  —  I  gasped 
And  clutched  my  head  —  and  grasped 
That  pencil  calmly  resting  on 
My  ear  ! 


Yes,  I  found  that  pencil  stub  ! 
But  my  thought  —  Aye,  there's  the  rub! 
In  vain  I  try  to  call  it 

Back  again. 

It  has  fled  beyond  recall, 

And  what  is  worst  of  all 

'Twill  turn  up  in  some 

Other  fellow's  brain  ! 


So  I  denounce  forthwith 
Any  future  Jones  or  Smith 
Who  thinks  my  thought  —  a 

Plagiarist  of  the  worst. 
I  shall  know  my  thought  again 
When  I  hear  it,  and  it's  plain 
It  must  be  mine  because 
/  thought  it  first! 


ZTbe  Xegenfc  of  tbe 

ONCE  a  Tiger  for  a  freak, 
Fell  in  love 

With  a  Lily,  pure  and  meek, 
And  as  timid,  white  and  weak 

As  a  dove. 

Yet  withal  a  wee  bit  chilly, 
Just  enough  the  Tiger's  silly 
Pride  to  pique. 


By  and  by  the  Lily  cold, 

Felt  the  charm  ; 

Learned,  tho'  dreadful  to  behold, 
That  the  Tiger,  fierce  and  bold, 

Meant  no  harm. 

And  she  smiled  upon  him  shyly, 
Till  at  length  the  Tiger  wily, 

Was  consoled. 

So  in  time  the  Beauty  grew 

To  adore 

The  Royal  Beast  who  came  to  woo, 
Loved  him  for  his  golden  hue  — 

For  his  roar  ; 

All  for  him  with  blushes  burning, 
To  a  Tiger-lily  turning, 

Golden  too. 


But  alas,  the  luckless  Lily 

Loved  in  vain ; 
For  a  painted  daffodilly 
Came  between  them,  and  the  Lily, 

Pale  with  pain, 

In  a  dark  pool,  drooped  and  pining, 
Drowned  herself,  and  rose  a  shining 

Water-lily. 


H  Cbilb's  ILesson. 


Chil-dren  see  the  lit-tle  Boy 
Play-ing  with  the  lit-tle  Toy 
Chil-dren  tell  me  if  you  can 
When  the  lit-tle  game  be-gan 
Tell  me  if  the  Boy  should 

stop 
What  would  hap-pen  to 

the  Top? 


